He Wasn't Born A Hero
by The Silent Dreamcatcher
Summary: An old man reminiscences about the time in the army that changed him forever, friends come, friends go, and some friends stay forever. When you share a lifetime of hardships in just a few months it's sometimes hard to let go. And when you're supposed to forget what happened on that one winter night so many years ago it might come back to haunt you for ever.


He Wasn't Born A Hero.

Prologue.

It's been over thirty years since that winter, the one of '78, but he could still feel the cold in his bones. He was such a young man back then, only twenty years of age and strong enough to face the entire world. But not anymore since that winter. It took a while for the people around him to notice that he'd changed, but it showed clearly on his face these days. He was old for his age, his eyes had grown too tired to see what went on around him anymore, all they saw was what had been. His family stopped worrying about him, assuming he was a lost cause. He never faked a smile for them, there was only one person in the world he smiled for, but in that winter, he lost the ability for good.

He shuffled to the kitchen to put the kettle on, through the windows he would be able to see how the children played in the snow, but not now, because the curtains were closed. There was no need for him to see what was outside anyway, he never came there anymore. Every week his brother would drop off some groceries and things he needed, everything else was paid for by his welfare. He couldn't work; they shot him in his right knee, that winter, but promised it would heal in time. They lied.

But that wasn't the reason he couldn't function anymore, there were plenty of jobs available where you never had to walk, no, the real reason was that he wasn't even there anymore. The present didn't exist to him, and no matter how hard they tried to make him become an active part of society, it was a lost cause. They never did find out why, and he never told them. When they asked him how he felt, he always replied with "I'm cold." When they asked why he didn't turn on the heating then, he told them "Because I'm supposed to be cold."

If it wasn't for his knee, he might have forgotten by now, but it reminded him. Every morning when he woke up it reminded him, every step he took, every move he made. And when he finally turned back into bed it reminded him again, and haunted his every dream. It plagued his mind, the shame, the guilt. Everything that had happened, that winter. Everything he did. The one thing he didn't do.

The water boiled, he poured it in the teapot and added his favourite flavour, then stood and waited until it was done. Then he took the pot in one hand, his cane in the other and made his way to the dinner table, where he already had a porcelain cup and biscuit waiting for him. He owned no tv and disliked the couch, so he preferred the old wooden table. It was sturdy and tough and he liked that, one of its legs had broken off when he moved here, but he fixed it years ago.

He drank his tea in the soft dark the deep blue curtains caused, and then ate his biscuit. His mouth was dry so he drank another cup. And one more to empty the pot. Then he shuffled back into the kitchen to put the used china in the sink, he would wash it later. A long time ago he would go out for a walk around this time of day. He'd moved to England, to the white cliffs of Dover, to try and find his peace. But to no avail, his heart still laid over there, in green plains and grand dark forests. Buried deep under the snow of the training camps in Germany.

He slowly climbed up the stairs, holding on for dear life at the steep part and feeling like he'd climbed a mountain when he reached the top. His knee started acting up and he limped into the bathroom to quickly brush his teeth. The old man looking back at him in the mirror looked nothing like him anymore; his once raven hair was grey and thinning, his face wrinkled and worn. At least his teeth were in pretty good shape still, he hated going to the dentist.

He rinsed, spit, and made his way into his bedroom. He put his cane in its familiar spot next to his single bed and worked his way into his pyjamas. As always getting into the damn sleeping device was hell, and his knee let him know it wasn't happy, not at all. He knew what dreams he was going to have already, they would be full of black skies and crisp white snow. Possibly a dead hand reaching up from underneath it too. And it all started with that stupid letter.

When he got the letter calling him up for his obligatory military service he was surprised. He'd waited too long to start his college education, and now he had to go. It was pointless in his eyes, there was no war going on, nor any threat of one happening, so really, it was nothing but a waste of time. But he had to go, that winter, the one of '78. Some say the army made them into real men. Some say it was the best time of their life. Some made friends that last a lifetime, but his only lasted that winter.

He quickly stopped his train of thought, no use getting into that story again, it was getting late already. Maybe he'd just go write his journal, that's the only good way to process these things. When he read the things he wrote he would remember what he was, what he had done, why things had happened.

And why it hadn't been him instead.


End file.
